Monica's Choice

by George Bird Grinnell

  *CHAPTER XI.*

  *"A NICE ENOUGH LITTLE DOG, AS DOGS GO."*

  "Is there anything else you're wanting, Miss Monica?"

  And Mary Ann, who had been for the last half-hour engaged in arrangingeverything for the comfort and convenience of her young mistress, pausedas she reached the door of the apartment, half-schoolroom, half-boudoir,which Monica called her "prison-house," and looked towards the occupantof a low couch that had been drawn up to the open window.

  "Oh, yes, you might put those books where I can reach them," and Monicaindicated a pile of library books which were lying on a low bookcase ina corner of the room. The maid obeyed, and placed them on a table byMonica's side, on which she kept the various things with which shevainly endeavoured to while away the tedium of the long, long days.

  "Are you sure there's nothing else, miss?"

  "I don't think there is, thanks." And the housemaid was just departing,when she was recalled by the sound of her name.

  "Oh, Mary Ann!"

  "Yes, miss?"

  "Which is your evening out?"

  "Fridays, Miss Monica," said the girl, astonishment expressed in bothface and voice. Whatever could be coming to their young lady? Neverbefore had she taken the slightest interest in the outings of hergrandmother's domestics!

  "Let me see, to-day is Friday," mused Monica, "could you do an errandfor me while you are out this evening, Mary Ann?"

  "Well, miss, it all depends," replied the under-housemaid, cautiously."Where would it be, miss?"

  "Oh, it's only to take back these books and get me some fresh ones fromBell's Library," said Monica. "Are you fond of reading, Mary Ann?"

  "La, yes, miss," admitted the girl with a giggle. "Cook says I get rightdown wropt up in my book, and they have to shake me sometimes, when I'msittin' readin' in the kitchen of a evening, for I never 'ears no onea-speakin' when I'm deep in my story."

  "Well, I daresay I could lend you a book, now and again," said Monicagraciously. "And you think you could go to Bell's this evening?"

  "Why, yes, Miss Monica, I'll go with pleasure," said the girl, delightedat the prospect of the loan of some books. "Me and Jim (that's my youngman, miss," she explained with a simper and a blush) "we generallystrolls down High Street, and I can easy pop in and get 'em."

  "Well, here is a list of half a dozen," said Monica, handing her apaper. "Ask them to give you any three that are in, and tell them whothey're for."

  "Very good, Miss Monica," and Mary Ann finally departed.

  Left to herself, Monica began to wonder how she should pass the wearyhours of that hot June day.

  "I wish Olive hadn't been yesterday, now," she mused; "because there isnot the faintest chance of her coming over again to-day; she said shewould come to-morrow if she could. Oh, dear! I do think some of thegirls might come. I'd rather have Elsa, or even that little AmethystDrury, than nothing but my own company all day long. I do wish I couldhave a dog, it would not be so sickeningly dull then." And she heaved aweary sigh of discontent. "What a nuisance this horrid sprain is! Yousimply can't do anything but read, when you can't move your leg, and Ihate needlework. I'm glad I thought of getting Mary Ann to go for somefresh books. Heigho! I wish I hadn't hurried so over the last oneyesterday, I should have had some left to read now, but it was sofascinating I couldn't leave off once I began."

  At that moment a footfall was heard on the richly carpeted stairway, andMrs. Beauchamp opened the door. Monica looked up in astonishment; itwas quite an hour earlier than her grandmother usually paid her morningvisit.

  "Good morning, Monica," she said, as she bent and just touched thegirl's forehead with cold, undemonstrative lips, "I hope your ankle isgoing on well."

  "Oh, I suppose it is, but I wish it had never been ill," replied Monicawith grim humour. "I'm sick of lying here."

  "You have only yourself to blame," was the old lady's unconsoling reply;"if you had not been disobedient, all this would have been avoided."And she waved her slender white hand expressively towards Monica'sinjured limb.

  With a pout, Monica looked out of the window, muttering something about"the same old tale."

  Her grandmother, who was slightly deaf, did not catch the words, but shesaw the gesture, and drew her own conclusions. With a sigh, Mrs.Beauchamp wished, for the hundredth time, that she had never undertakenthe charge of this troublesome granddaughter; her coming into the primhousehold had made an end of all its restful quiet, and she never seemedfree from anxiety about her. And yet--Conrad had intreated her soearnestly to have his only and much-loved child, and at the time she hadseemed tractable enough. But oh! how greatly Monica had altered ineighteen short months; perhaps she had had mistaken ideas about herupbringing; perhaps, if she had been a little less strict in minormatters, things might have gone more smoothly; perhaps old Dr. Marleywas right when he said: "It is easier to lead than to drive youngpeople."

  With these thoughts in her mind, the old lady made a proposition thatnearly took Monica's breath away; so unexpected was it.

  "I have been thinking that perhaps you might have a small dog of somekind, Monica; it would be company for you while you are laid up."

  "Oh, grandmother!" was all the girl could find to say; but the look ofintense pleasure which irradiated her whole face, entirely transformingit, was sufficient reward to Mrs. Beauchamp for the very real concessionshe was making; for, of all things, a mischievous, gambolling dog_indoors_, who would be sure to bark or whine just when she was having alittle nap, was one that she objected to most.

  "Of course, it must be a very nice quiet one, Monica, small andwell-trained. Perhaps Richards might hear of one somewhere."

  "Oh! grandmother, do you remember that day you decided I was to go toschool?" Monica questioned, eagerly; "because Tom had just been tellingme about a jolly little wire-haired terrier his father wanted a homefor, when you sent for me."

  "I do remember something of the sort, Monica," said the old lady, "buteven if the dog were still to be had, it might not be just what wewant."

  "Well, I do wish you would send round to the stables and ask,grandmother," said Monica, coaxingly "because we could have him at once,I expect. We might have to wait ever so long before Richards cameacross one, he is so dreadfully slow. And it _is_ so dull up here, allalone."

  "Well, I will see what can be done."

  And the old lady departed, a comfortable feeling of having givenpleasure warming her cold, reserved heart; while Monica reiterated againand again, in words which jarred terribly on her aristocratic nerves:"It's most awfully kind of you, grandmother! It _will_ be jolly to havea dog of my own."

  To say that Monica waited patiently for results would be untrue. Shewas far too excited and eager about the matter to do that; but as shewas alone, except for a flying visit from Barnes, who brought her somelunch, and as she could not move her leg, her impatience had a salutaryamount of check. She could not think how it was her grandmother had everbrought her mind to think of such a thing, knowing well how keenly sheobjected to animals indoors; it puzzled her a good deal, especiallyafter her disobedience earlier in the week. And Monica grew quiterepentant for her misdeeds, as she considered the unexpected favour shewas being granted.

  An hour or so later a peculiar scratching noise along the corridoroutside made Monica listen intently, and a second after there came ahesitating knock at the door.

  "Come in," cried Monica, who was all excitement; and the door opened toadmit Tom, the little stable-boy, who was leading the cutest lookingwire-haired terrier imaginable, and was closely followed by Barnes.

  "Oh, you darling!" cried Monica, who was infatuated with the dog atfirst sight; "do bring him close, Tom."

  "Yes, miss," said Tom, with alacrity, pulling his forelock, and grinningall over his bright little face, as he clutched hold of the bit of strapthat did duty for a collar, and dragged the terrier up to Monica'scouch. "I hope you're better, miss," he ventured to say shyly, for
Barnes, of whom he stood greatly in awe, was looking severely at him,and he had been bidden "to mind his behaviour."

  "Oh, yes," said Monica, carelessly; she had no thoughts to spare onherself just then. "What's his name, Tom? Do put him up beside me."

  "Be careful, now," said Barnes, a trifle sharply; she was not bestpleased at this introduction into the household. "Remember your leg,Miss Monica."

  "All right, Barnes, don't fidget! See, he's as quiet as possible. Goodboy, dear old fellow!" and Monica stroked the ginger coloured head, andlooked into the liquid brown eyes which had a wistful expression inthem. He pricked up his ears at the tones of endearment, and licked herhands in response.

  "'E 'ave took to you, an' no mistake, miss," said Tom, with hugedelight. "Jack 'e 'ave been called, miss," he added, in answer toMonica's query, "but you'll find 'im a grander name, miss, now."

  "No, I think Jack will do very well," said Monica, and the little dog,who knew by her fondling that he was being loved and made much of, gavea little grunt of satisfaction, and curled himself round on the couchbeside his new mistress.

  "Isn't he sweet, Barnes?"

  "Oh, he's a nice enough little dog, as dogs go, Miss Monica, but I haveno particular fancy for them," was the maid's somewhat grudging reply.And then she added: "Now then, my boy, you'd better be off to your workagain."

  "Yes'm. Good mornin', miss," stammered Tom, in confusion, for Barnes'repelling tones made him feel as if he had done something wrong.

  "Oh, good-bye, Tom. I'm awfully glad to have Jack," said Monica, with abright smile, which made the little lad feel at ease again, and remainedin his memory for many a day. "I shall be coming out on the lawn in afew days' time, and then you must come round and see him."

  The little newcomer proved an endless source of pleasure and amusementto Monica; he had such quaint ways, and made himself thoroughly happyand contented in his new home. Even Mrs. Beauchamp was obliged toconfess that he was no trouble; he spent hours curled up on the rugwhich was thrown over Monica's knees, as if he had been accustomed to aninvalid mistress all his life.

  "You wait until this tiresome sprain is well," Monica would often say tohim, "and then you shall have a very different existence, Jack."

  The old doctor made great friends with him when he came to see hispatient the next morning, and went off chuckling with pleasure over theresult of his plain-speaking to Mrs. Beauchamp, a few days before.

  "She'll get on fast enough now," he said to himself, as he trotted downthe drive; "young folk want young things about them, and up there," witha suggestive glance backward at the stately residence he had just left,"they are all as old as Methuselah. She looked a totally different beingthis morning, from the sulky, discontented girl I saw last time. But Idon't deny she's a handful--takes after her mother, I suppose. Conradwas as nice a fellow as ever breathed, but I never had much of a fancyfor his wife, poor thing; she was too much of a woman of the world forold Henry Marley. But there, he isn't, by any means, all he ought tobe." And the dear old doctor sighed as he realised how far short he wasof being a true copy of the Great Example.

  The doctor had not long left, when a footman called at Carson Rise, witha basket containing some magnificent peaches and hot-house flowers,"with Mrs. Howell's compliments, and she would be glad to know how theyoung lady was."

  Mrs. Beauchamp was out for a drive, so the parlourmaid came up to Monicafor a message.

  "Oh, Harriet, how lovely!" cried the girl; "do take them out carefullywhile I write a little note to send back. How very kind of Mrs.Howell."

  "The same lady has sent every day to enquire for you, miss," said themaid, who was very much impressed by the grandeur of the Howell livery,and the importance of the individual who wore it.

  "Has she really? No one has mentioned it before," said Monica; "I oughtto have been told." And there was a suggestion of displeasure in hertones.

  "Mrs. Beauchamp knew, miss, of course, and so did Barnes," Harriethastened to say, in defence of herself.

  "Very well, Harriet, it was not your fault," said Monica, and she busiedherself in writing a little girlish note of thanks, which brought tearsof pleasure and gratification to the eyes of the good-natured, motherlywoman who received it, and then slipped it into her pocket for fear hertyrannical young daughter should come across it, and make fun of it. ForLily Howell had not yet grown reconciled to the idea of "_that_ MonicaBeauchamp" getting into her home, and prying into everything, and thengoing off to make fun of all the mistakes she knew her mother must havemade.

  There had been a great scene upon her return home, on the Mondayevening, and she had exclaimed long and loudly against the fate whichhad allowed such an unfortunate thing to come to pass.

  Mrs. Howell, instead of severely reprimanding her daughter for being soinsulting and rude, had wept feebly, and bowed beneath the angry girl'sstorm of words; but in her heart she treasured the remembrance of thekind words and very real gratitude of a daughter of the aristocracy to apoor, common-place woman, such as she was allowed no opportunity offorgetting that she, Caroline Howell, was.